Fated (The Soul Seekers #1)(73)
“She’s here,” Cade says, settling onto a red velvet sofa that sits low to the ground. Pulling Coyote closer as he smooths the fur at his crown. “The one we’ve been waiting for, Daire Santos, has finally arrived.”
Coyote growls, snarls, as though he understands—or maybe I’m reading too much into it—maybe it’s just a coincidence. Though probably not—as Cade’s spirit animal, they’re deeply connected.
All I know for sure is that when he shoves that long snout toward me again—when his nose starts twitching and his growl deepens—I’m overcome with relief when Cade misreads the whole thing.
“Not to worry, you know I can handle her.” He lowers his face to Coyote’s, nuzzling him with affection. “It’s just a matter of time until I convince her we’re so much better together. So much better to wage peace and not war. Though she’s tougher than I figured. Prettier too. It won’t be easy to convince her—but then easy is overrated. The reward is so much sweeter when it requires a little conniving—and man is she sweet. Exactly what I was hoping for.”
Coyote throws his head back and howls, spinning in a quick series of circles before he rests at Cade’s feet, tail thumping with anticipation. The move practiced, a much-rehearsed ritual, prompting Cade to make for a large icebox I hadn’t noticed ’til now.
He flips the lid and retrieves a large crystal bowl filled with bloodied, dark, squishy things. The sight and smell of which triggers the coyote into an absolute frenzy.
I peek past the belt loop, determined to get a better look. Overcome by the scent of something so putrid, it kicks the cockroach’s most primal instincts into high gear when he senses what lies just before him: random, chopped-up bits—either animal or human—something that repulses me just as much as it drives the roach insane with desire.
Cade returns to the couch, where he sets the bowl on the glass table before him and scoops his fingers into the sludge. His hand held in offering, tempting the coyote with a heap of putrid, bloodied chunks. Face shining with pride when Coyote slurps it right off his palm with a finesse that’s surprising.
Coyote licks his chops, gives a quick yelp that comes off as a cross between a growl and a bark, then he goes through the whole spinning ritual again—his version of begging for seconds.
The performance causing Cade to laugh when he says, “You know the drill—gather the troops and there’s more in it for you.”
Coyote obeys, streaking from room to room until I can no longer track him. Leaving me alone with Cade who settles back on the couch and readies a snack for himself. Slipping his hand into the bowl, he retrieves a long, stringy bit of ick he’s quick to plop into his mouth. Taking a moment to close his eyes and savor the flavor, before leisurely licking his slick, bloodied fingers, and dipping his hand in for more.
thirty-six
I creep under Cade’s T-shirt. Using extreme caution to cling to the fabric and not him. The last thing I need is to tip him off—from what I’ve seen, he might consider me less a nuisance and more a nice little morsel to eat.
It’s a risky move, being this close. Yet it’s one I’m willing to take. I can’t risk the cockroach’s instincts overpowering me—making a dive for the bowl of bloodied bits in search of a little late-night nourishment.
If that happened on my watch, I just couldn’t bear it. There’s just not enough toothpaste and mouthwash for something like that.
The wait feels much longer in here. Probably because there’s not much to see other than the flicker of torchlight that penetrates the thin weave of Cade’s T-shirt, highlighting the Calvin Klein waistband of his black boxer briefs like a Times Square billboard. I also detect the all-pervasive scent of a musky body spray for men—and while at first I found it repellent, after a while, I have to admit, it goes a long way in masking the horrible scent the bowl of crud emits.
I wait. Growing so bored I’m tempted to nap, but instead I spend the time eavesdropping as he hums a few songs I don’t recognize—songs that sound tribal and ancient. And when I do decide to take a quick peek, due to sheer boredom if nothing else, I watch as he gives himself an impromptu manicure by gnawing a hangnail right off his thumb.
I’m just about to duck back inside when he jumps to his feet and says, “There you are. Well done, boy. Well done.”
I make for the belt loop, in search of a better view. Thankful to be here in cockroach form and not human form, if for no other reason than it keeps me from shrieking in horror when my gaze darts from Coyote to the group gathered before us, which can only be described as an army of … undead beasts.
A small army of truly monstrous beings with partially decayed faces and protruding bones, some with crucial body parts missing. The sight of them gathered like that reminding me of some of the more intense, special-effects makeup jobs Jennika used to do for the scarier horror movies.
Only this is much worse.
This is real.
They gather before him with their tongues—well, those who have tongues—lolling with anticipation, eyes bulging expectantly—as Cade makes for the icebox, returning with a large, metal container he places on the glass table before him.
“Back off,” he says, glaring at one in particular that’s creeping too close. Waiting until it returns to the group, rejoining the rest of the freak show, before he plunges his hand into his pocket, fishes around, and retrieves a small silver key he uses to open the lock.